


Fandom

by Calais_Reno



Series: Author [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aggressive women, Consequences, International Fanworks Day 2020, M/M, Overuse of Adjectives, Public Assault, do not copy to another site, domestic scene, literary criticism, telling a story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Mormons have their methods.OR: Holmes and Watson meet some of their fans.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Author [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365580
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: International Fanworks Day 2020





	Fandom

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: this is in no way intended to be insulting to Mormons. Sir Arthur's readers found them exotic; as a young author, he used them to sell his story. Today, that part of his story seems rather tone-deaf. My little story is just a jab at Watson, as a proxy for Doyle.

It was just after one o’clock on a Tuesday when I heard the door downstairs slam and a second later feet running up the stairs. I had not heard the bell, so it had to be Holmes. Before I could even rise from my seat, he had opened the door to our rooms, hurried inside, slammed the door, and flung himself against it, panting.

“Good heavens, Holmes!” I came to him, assessing his condition with concern. Rapid breathing, eyes wide, pulse throbbing visibly at his throat. I grabbed his wrist. “What has happened?”

“Watson—“ he gasped. “It’s— Mormons!”

“Mormons? Here?”

“Of course here!” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. “They chased me all the way down Marylebone.”

I led him into the sitting room and helped him take off his coat. “Come and sit, dear fellow. Catch your breath, and then tell me what happened.”

He sat. I poured him a tot of brandy and put it in his hand. Considering his agitation, I poured myself one as well before settling into my seat.

“So, Mormons?” I prompted him.

“Mormons,” he repeated. “They attacked me.”

“Attacked? What manner of attack was it?”

“Handbags.”

I sighed. “Holmes, you’re being stingy with details. Start before the handbags and lead up to your escape.”

“Very well,” he said, taking a sip of brandy. “I shall endeavour to narrate to your specifications, Doctor. Shall I describe my attackers?”

“At the appropriate point in your story, of course.”

“I woke at approximately nine this morning. As I put on my dressing gown, I could hear the bells from St Cyprian—“

“ _In medias res_ , my dear fellow, as Horace advises. You must begin your story where you are on a course to meet these Mormons.”

“I am endeavouring to do so, my dear Watson. You know that I never rise so late. The fact that it was so late when I arose meant that I was unable to have breakfast. As a result, I was famished after my appointment and decided to stop at the Bedford for some coffee and a sweet bun, which was where I was spotted by my attackers. Logically, then, the story must begin when this train of events was set in motion.”

“Begin at the Bedford, then. The reader doesn’t need to know about St Cyprian or your dressing gown or the lack of breakfast. Besides, I was there. I saw you flapping about in your gown, grumbling about the fact that I ate the last scone and the teapot was empty.”

He huffed unhappily. “This is your advice, Watson? In your own stories, you always begin with some domestic scene, very often over breakfast. You will recall that I questioned you on the purpose of such scenes, and you said that readers love my random deductions about your investments or your boots or your old rugby team, the way I pull details out of thin air, startling you with my brilliance. Why, just this morning I noted—”

“Enough, Holmes. Tell me about your breakfast ratiocinations another time. Right now I want to know about the Mormons.”

“Yes, the Mormons. I stopped at the Bedford, as I said.” He paused, looking to me for approval. “Need I describe the place?”

I nodded. “It would give your story some atmosphere, I think. We might say the place was crowded with loungers and idlers of every stripe, all leading a comfortless, meaningless existence—“

“The place was quite empty, Watson,” he said. “No loungers. No idlers.”

“Absolutely empty? Or was it haunted by a few lonely diners, each lost in his own thoughts? Perhaps there was one woman by herself, who seemed to vacillate—”

“No haunting, Watson. No vacillation. I ate my sweet bun and drank my coffee quite unmolested.”

“What about the Mormons?”

“I met them as I was leaving. They came through the door as I was paying my waiter. Apparently, they recognised me, for they approached at once and said—.”

“At this point, Holmes, it would be appropriate to describe them.”

“But I was just getting to— oh, never mind. They were women, large and strong. One wore an ugly navy serge suit and the other was dressed in a hideous floral frock. Peonies, I think. Both wore rather impressive hats. Feathers, birds, flowers, veils— the total treatment.”

“These women were large, you say— as in _tall_? Or _thickset_?”

“What’s wrong with calling them large? It’s a perfectly good word, Watson.”

“Parcels are large, and hats, and coaches, and ballrooms. You need a more specific word, one that will lend colour to these women. If you say they are large, one person may picture a tall woman, and another a stout woman. And strong— how could you tell their strength? Were they brawny women? Or portly? And you’ve neglected to mention their approximate age.”

“Middle-aged, stout women with burly arms. I presumed they were burly from the cut of their sleeves. The handbags were also large— or bulky, if you prefer. Massive, unwieldy, voluminous.”

“Were these women pale or red-faced?”

“Oh, their faces were red, all right!” He chuckled.

“Florid or ruddy? Did they look healthy or was it an excited flush?”

He thought about this for a moment. “Erubescent. No— sanguine.”

“Sanguine is an ambiguous word, as it also means cheerful. Did they appear to be in a good humour?”

“They looked angry, Watson. I assume that was why their faces were erubescent.”

“Angry,” I said. “Was it vexation or ire? Did it seem like a habitual ill humour, or a precipitous wrath?”

“They were vexed, precipitously.”

“And what was the source of their vexation?”

“I was.”

I considered this. “They recognised you.”

“So I said.”

“Describe the attack.”

“One of them exclaimed—“

“In what sort of voice did she exclaim? Was it more of a shout or a screech?”

“It was a bellow, most definitely. She bellowed, _you’re Sherlock Holmes!_ ”

“Go on,” I said when he paused. “The dialogue, if you please. What did you say?”

“I said nothing. Before I could open my mouth, they were assaulting me with their voluminous bags, hitting me until I had to cower on the floor, shielding my more delicate parts.”

I chuckled. “Ah. Did they land any blows to those parts?”

“I would rather not include my parts in this story, Watson,” he said testily. “It’s embarrassing enough to be assaulted publicly by burly-armed women. I’m not describing the blows.”

“Perhaps I can examine them later, in case they require any special treatment.”

His face began to acquire rubescence. “You are a bawdy man, Doctor. We can discuss treatment later.”

“Very well, continue then. You were on the ground, blows raining down upon you, and you said nothing?”

“I said, _stop._ And _help,_ as I recall. And I threatened to call the police. None of these things stopped the blows, however.”

“No matter. When you prepare to tell this story again, we can come up with some better lines, Holmes, make you look more heroic. You might have said, sternly, _Madam_ —”

“Watson, I am _never_ telling this story again. Not to _anyone_. In fact, I’m not even sure I want to finish telling it to you.”

“I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“The stout ladies continued _raining blows_ with their bulky hand-bags, and finally the brawnier of the two bellowed, _You have libelled us, Mr Holmes!_ At this accusation I replied, _We have never met until now, Madam, and I am quite certain that I have never written malicious or defamatory statements about you.”_

“Well said, my boy. What was their reply?”

“They continued to malign me loudly and pummel me with their Herculean hand-bags. By this time, however, I had perceived that they were Mormons.”

“From their handbags? Their hats? Their—“

“From the tracts they were carrying.”

“Just to be clear, these women were American?”

“English. Watson, you do know there are Mormons in England, don’t you?”

“I did not know that.”

“They had evidently read your story, _A Study in Scarlet_ , and took exception to your portrayal of the Mormons.”

“My portrayal—? It’s a story, Holmes, not an encyclopaedia. People should not expect facts from a story.”

“You will hear no arguments from me, my dear. Your stories, however, have claimed to be accurate accounts of our cases, which implies that they are to some extent factual. At any rate, I informed them that I was not the author of the story, but that it had been written by Doctor John H Watson of 221B Baker Street, Marylebone.”

“You told them— about me?”

“You were very proud of the story when it came out, Watson. You practically preened yourself on the achievement.”

This stung, a bit. I recalled the conversation we had when he admitted that he did not find my story _factual_ enough. “It was your achievement as well, Holmes. I wrote it to please you, but you of course found it too _tinged with romanticism,_ did you not? Not _cold and unemotional_ enough to suit you, was it?”

He smiled then. Rising from his chair, he came over to me and knelt at my feet. Trying hard to look annoyed, I kept my eyes turned away from him.

“My dear,” he said, taking my hand in his. “You do please me— more than your silly little stories can ever reveal to your fans. Your tales have brought me clients and gained a large fandom for our doings. I am so popular these days that most people believe I’m a fictional character.” He regarded me, his eyes full of love. “If I may be so bold as to predict the future, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will live on long after we are gone. They will not grow old, but will adapt to each new age and its inventions. They will transcend the written word, existing in media that have not yet been invented. And this will happen because you penned us onto paper, making us immortal.”

It was hard to resist him when he looked at me so. “Well, it has given me pleasure to write your adventures. I know you find them overly romantic, but the romance was there, my love.”

He placed a gentle kiss on my brow. “Indeed it was. But please, my dearest Boswell— no more Mormons. I know you put them in the story because your readers are fascinated with such things, but do take care to do your research properly.” Rising, he took his coat from the settee and stuck his hand in the pocket. “Mormons are nothing if not persistent. I got away only when I promised to bring you these tracts.”

Into my lap he tossed a handful of papers. _The History of the Church of the Latter-day Saints._ _Joseph Smith, American Prophet. Polygamy: God’s Will for Men and Women._

“Holmes,” I groaned. “I repent that I ever wrote them into the story, and promise I will never again pen a story incorporating a non-trinitarian American religious movement.”

“A good decision,” he said.

The bell rang then. I waited to hear Mrs Hudson trudging to answer, then remembered that today was her market day. “Sit, Holmes. I’ll answer it.”

When I opened the door, there were two young men in black suits standing on the step. One was a stout, portly youth with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion, while the other was lanky and pale, with stooping shoulders and a stringy neck. I had never seen them before.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Doctor Watson?” the lanky one said. “We’re from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We’d like to talk to you about your understanding of the Mormons.”

“We’re really not rapacious murderers,” the stout one added. “May we come in?”

I returned their smiles. “I’m afraid Doctor Watson has recently left the country, gone to America. I believe he was planning a tour of the western states. He mentioned Utah…” I gestured vaguely.

The stout one looked puzzled. “And you are…?”

“Doyle,” I said. “A.C. Doyle.”

They cast skeptical looks at one another. The lanky one spoke first. “Well, please let him know that we stopped by. Perhaps on his travels he’ll find an opportunity to visit Salt Lake City and see the tabernacle.”

“I’m sure that’s what he’s planned,” I said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Good day, Mr Doyle.”

I closed the door. Though not as fearsome as large, strong ladies with hand-bags, I had sensed a tenacity in these Mormons that explained their success in making converts. That might be a story even more gripping than the one I’d written.

Written and regretted, unfortunately. As I trudged up the stairs, I wondered whether I ought to begin using a pen name.

Holmes was in his chair, smoking, when I came through the open door. From the smirk on his face I knew that he had been listening. The man has ears like a bat.

I settled into my chair and picked up my pen, remembering what I’d been writing before he burst through the door with his fantastical tale. _My dear fellow, said Sherlock Holmes…_

“A.C.Doyle?” he murmured.

“An old school mate,” I replied. “At Edinburgh.”

He shook his head. “I never get your limits, Watson.”


End file.
